


How Do You Call Your Loverboy?

by Ithinkwehaveanemergency



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Landlord Derek Hale, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Roommates, thats a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithinkwehaveanemergency/pseuds/Ithinkwehaveanemergency
Summary: Derek is an introverted homeowner who lives with his dog in Lake Tahoe and rents the spare bed and bathroom in his cabin to business travelers on AirBnB.Stiles is an up-and-coming young project manager for a quickly growing company, who rents out Derek's spare room for three months.OrThe Sterek AirBnB fic.





	How Do You Call Your Loverboy?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tabbytabbytabby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabbytabbytabby/gifts).



> First Sterek fic after over half a decade of very quiet shipping.
> 
> I blame Tabitha.
> 
> Title and chosen lyrics in the fic are from the timeless song, "Love is Strange" by Mickey and Sylvia.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: Parts of the fic make more sense if you've heard the song.

 

“Listen.  I'm so sorry.  I don't usually ramble this much.  I mean, yeah, I do, but like…”

 

Derek tenses as his brand new long-term tenant takes a large step forward, gripping the counter across from where Derek is slicing onions methodically.

 

“Let me start over.”  The renter exhales. He leans forward on his forearms.  “I picked this airbnb for a reason.”

 

The statement gives Derek pause and he looks up at the peculiar man, inviting him to speak his peace to a welcoming audience.  He seems to understand Derek’s prompt.

 

“Most people say that they'll interact as much or as little as desired, and like…”  The man, Stiles, swallows hard. “I don't like the pressure of that uncertainty. It's insane to put that power in my hands.  I'm an intrusive, borderline offensive, presence in the lives of most people I associate with, so like, I need that clear cut boundary in the sand.  Or snow... I guess.... Is more appropriate.”

 

Derek knows his eyes have gone wide but he can't help it.  He watches the man practically vibrate out of his skin with nervous energy that seems to come from thin air.

 

Derek’s eyes keep flitting to his tanned, sinewy forearms, clearly toned and toughened by years of manual labor.  Then to the hands that twitched as if trying not to actively trying not to dominate the conversation.

 

Derek isn't sure he’s ever met someone quite so instantly captivating.

 

“What I mean to say is…”  Stiles straightens, calming instantly and using his arms to brace himself on the counter instead of leaning over it, into Derek’s space, a clear act of respect.  “You outlined, very clearly, what hours you'd be present in the kitchen and downstairs in general, and what exactly was accepted as far as interaction and that was a total turn on for me.”

 

Derek’s eyes fly impossibly wider at that, and the tenant in front of him takes another step back, distancing himself from the kitchen entirely.

 

“No, like, I mean…”  The man flails his wiry hands about, as if trying to make them iterate his intentions.  “It was why I picked the house. It was clear cut. I have a ton of work to do, and I don't need to worry about stepping on your toes or you on mine or whatever… ugh!”

 

He runs his long fingers through his short hair and sighs.

 

Derek takes pity on him and speaks, finally.

 

“You like curry?”

 

*****

 

For the first four days, they struggle with falling into a rhythm.

 

Stiles trips over himself in the morning when he leaves for his jobsite, trying not to make noise or block the view as Derek eats and watches the news on the downstairs television.

 

He adapts and starts putting his boots on outside.

 

Derek starts cooking breakfast at 5:50, just ten or fifteen minutes too early for coffee to be still steaming hot by the time Stiles finishes his excessive thirty minute shower.

 

He adapts and starts his pre-breakfast jog at 5:30 every morning instead of 5:15.

 

Stiles comes home bearing free food from the resort, only to learn that Derek has a very specific diet full of allergies and sensitivities to which the landlord unnecessarily justifies.  ‘Yeah, sure. I’m being picky, but I'd rather take care if my body than consume indulgent things that make it impossible for me to live a healthy life day to day.”

 

Stiles adapts and starts to bring home sushi occasionally from the 5 star restaurant across the street from the resort instead.

 

Derek’s husky, Kobalt, starts trying to pile into Stiles’ space as the out-of-towner does yoga at 9:15pm every weeknight, much to Derek’s embarrassment.  The dog is incorrigible, so Derek gives up.

 

They both adapt, doing yoga together, all three of them, as Kobalt is surprising obedient once Derek is part of the routine.

 

And that's when it really starts.

 

The routine.

 

The trading off on providing each other meals.  The willingness to share a couch and fire over retreating to their quarters.  The bickering over music and movie choices. The genuine smiles traded in the mornings and then each night before bed.

 

After three weeks, they become well oiled cogs moving in a machine of efficiency and contentment, grinding away at the days as if they were minutes.

 

*****

 

“Stiles!”  Derek shouts, setting the grocery  bag on the counter and removing his puffy jacket.  “Can you turn on the gas for the grill? Turn the left half on high.  The right flint is still bugging.”

 

Derek toes off his boots, walking them back over to the door and hanging his jacket above them on the rack.  He hears the glass and screen sliding doors open in quick succession.

 

“You know, it's a good thing I can read your mind.”  Stiles pokes his head in as Kobalt darts inside to greet his owner.  “Cause you know I can't make out anything you shout at me through the door.”

 

Derek crouched to pet his dog lovingly and grins up at Stiles.

 

“Good thing.”

 

“Fuck you.  Just for that I'm gonna assume you forgot to tell me the right flint is still fucked up and I'm gonna turn it on anyway, hoping the grill explodes at you and burns your excessively manly eyebrow off your excessively manly face.”  Stiles grunts. He shuts the glass once more and Derek is left laughing in the silence of his own living room.

 

He walks into the kitchen, having shed several layers.  He opens the fridge, frowning in confusion when he sees his bell peppers missing.  He then notices them cut and prepped, just like he likes them, in a baking dish, marinating alongside thick slices of the purple sweet potato that Stiles had been nagging him to try grilling.

 

“Cheeky little…”  Derek mumbles, fighting a smile as he peers out the kitchen window, meeting Stiles’ challenging stare.

 

Derek grabs the saran wrapped dish and the fresh salted steaks in the grocery bag he’d brought home and starts for the sliding door. 

 

“Presumptuous.”  He sneers dramatically as Stiles opens the door for him.  Kobalt squeezes past first, eager to get back to the man who rubs his belly when Derek won't.

 

“That is… completely true.”  Stiles laughs, sliding the door shut behind Derek then returning to his spot on the porch swing, laptop, tablet and phone all spread out on the unused half of the seat.

 

“Work okay?”  Derek prompts, opening the grill to test how quickly it's heating.  He frowns in consideration and tweaks the dials slightly. He uncovers the veggies, pleased with the smell of ginger in the marinade.  Stiles has learned Derek’s personal tastes quickly. When he doesn't get a response, Derek continues covering part of the grate with foil and then setting the veggies on it to grill.  Once he’s got the meat going, he shuts the lid to the outdoor grill and turns to face the man who’d been renting his downstairs bedroom and bath for the past month.

 

Stiles is gnawing intently on his bottom lip, scrolling through something on this laptop.  There's a displeased look in his eyes, concern evident in the creases between his eyebrows.

 

“You want some scotch?”  Derek speaks and Stiles startles, like he’d been unaware that anyone was near him.  Derek holds back a laugh. “Sorry, you just look like you could use a drink.”

 

Stiles smiles warmly, but Derek can see the tired lines under his eyes.

 

“God, I'd love one.  But I gotta finish this change order before 9pm, so it gets in the calendar day.  After dinner?”

 

Derek flushes at the wink Stiles sends his way and smiles in agreement.  He turns back to the grill, turning the meat and checking the progress on the veggies.

 

They work in comfortable, domestic silence, Stiles groaning in exasperation here and there.

 

“It'll be ready in about two minutes.  What about you?” Derek stretches his hands above his head, turning to see Stiles smiling at his torso with a soft expression.  Derek lets him arms fall to his sides, resisting the urge to pull his shirt down, and turns back to flick the switch for the gas line off.  “See you inside?”

 

Stiles hums a small noise of assent and focuses on his computer once more.

 

Derek bites his lip as he carries the food inside.  Kobalt follows diligently. Derek plates the food slowly, knowing that Stiles would be slow to finish as he analyzed and edited his reports obsessively before sending them out.

 

He finishes up before walking over to the turntable he has set up to his entertainment system and laughing to himself about the last album he had on there.  He decides againsts changing it and turns it on.

 

Derek climbs up onto the kitchen counter, rooting through the top shelf of his cup cupboard.  He pulls down two rounded scotch glasses and wets a paper towel to dust them off.

 

“Getting the fancy crystal out for  _ moi _ ?”

 

Derek startles, almost dropping the glass he’s wiping down.

 

“And setting the mood with Mickey and Sylvia?”  Stiles smirks. “Pretty cute, Der.”

 

“Eat your food, jackass.”  Derek huffs, getting his nice scotch out to pour two neat fingers in two small glasses.

 

“Gladly.”  Stiles groans, pulling a stool up to the counter and extending grabby-hands that Derek will deny falling for til the day he dies.

 

The vinyl keeps playing the catchy song and Derek smiles at the domesticity of it all.  He puts the glass on the counter next to Stiles’ plate before raising his own to his lips.

 

“Ah Ah!  Whoa, stop!”  Stiles flails before grabbing his own glass.  He gives Derek an exasperated eyebrow raise, lifting his glass toward the homeowner.  “Cheers?”

 

Derek blinks at the foreign gesture, not usually one to have company over for drinks, but he tips his cup to clink with Stiles’ anyway, stomach turning as the younger man winks over the rim of his scotch.

 

“Oh Sylvia?  Yes, Mickey? How d’you call your lover boy?”  Stiles speaks along with the music, inflection and pitch changing perfectly along with the track.  He grins as Derek arches an amused brow. He lowers his own brow an an exaggerated come-hither look.  “Come here, loverboy.”

 

Derek stifles a laugh and starts in on his food in an attempt not hide the blush that graces his cheekbones while Stiles sings the rest of the song.

 

And if he gets redder still when Stiles randomly quotes some lines from the movie as the Dirty Dancing soundtrack plays on, the young renter doesn't comment.

 

*****

 

“How.”  Stiles slurs, more out of exhaustion than inebriation.  “How haven't you seen Hook?”

 

Derek turns his head to glance upward.

 

Stiles is sitting at one end of the couch, tumbler in hand as they watch “The Graduate” on TV.

 

Derek is occupying the rest of the couch, on leg draped over the opposite arm, his head on the cushion near Stiles’ thigh.

 

“I dunno.”  Derek studies Stiles’ features from the unflattering angle.  His nostrils are too large, his neck covered in patchy stubble, but his eyebrows are dark and long as his eyes droop.  And Derek is immensely attracted to him. “ _ Fuck _ .”

 

“No, it's okay, I'm not trying to make you feel bad, it's just one of those things you say, y’know?”  Stiles looks down at Derek, mistaking his breathy curse as shame over not seeing the cult classic. Stiles smiles, soft and apologetic.  “We gotta watch it, kay?”

 

“Yeah.”  Derek exhales, staring into honey colored eyes with confusion.

 

_ When had he fallen for his renter? _

 

“Ugh.  I am… relaxed.”  Stiles groans, stretching his arms over his head.

 

Derek does everything he can to look away, but the taught muscles of Stiles’ torso draw his gaze like a car crash on a trafficky highway.

 

“I'm gonna go to bed.”  Stiles announces, and the milky white skin disappears from Derek’s eyeline.  The couch shifts as Stiles stands. He walks toward the sink, rinsing out his empty tumbler, and Derek shamelessly watches the muscles in the younger man’s back flex and stretch as he washes the glass and then dries it, putting it back on its rightful shelf, and oh look… there's that sliver of mouth-watering bare skin again.

 

Derek can't do this.

 

They can't do this.

 

Derek needs to stop spending so much time with the kid.  Derek needs to tell him to go hit up Stateline or somewhere there are more young, hot, successful twenty-five-year-olds who are just breezing through Tahoe, enjoying the start of their careers that will take them all over the nation one day.

 

Stiles deserves to enjoy his youth and make the most out of being a young hotshot project manager for a successful company.  He doesn't deserve to sit in this log cabin with Derek night in and night out.

 

“Hey Stiles?”  Derek swings his leg off the arm of the couch, sitting upright.  He watches Stiles swivel in his spot at the sink, and when the man faces Derek, it's with a warm, lazy grin.  Derek sees the pure happiness in his expression and so of course he can't locate his previously intended words.  “How do you feel about Moroccan food? For tomorrow while we watch Hook?”

 

Stiles’ grin grows to double the size, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

“Sounds perfect.”

 

*****

 

It’s another two weeks after Derek's internal freak out till something happens.

 

It’s a Sunday and they're sitting on the deck outside.  It's in the high 60s, even at sundown, and Stiles is so amazed at the slight rise in temperature that he demands they sit outside and eat dinner, a mixed greens slaw topped with garlic lemongrass poached salmon that Stiles insists he cook for Derek, since the homeowner does 90% of their cooking.

 

He confesses he isn't as good at cooking as the meal implies, its just the dish that he perfected to impress dates.

 

Derek insists right back that it is, indeed, perfect and demands that Stiles teach him how he makes the fish so tender.

 

They forgo cleaning up to watch Kobalt dart around after squirrels in the backyard.  Derek insists that they're just playing, almost as if the squirrels around their home know that Kobalt wouldn't actually hurt a fly.

 

Soon enough, Kobalt gets tired of chasing things he doesn't ever catch and brings a tennis ball to them, dropping it in Stiles’ lap instead of Derek’s.  Derek makes a mock offended noise, but smiles warmly as Stiles wrestles with Kobalt for a bit then gets up to throw the tennis ball into the woods for the hyperactive dog to fetch.

 

Stiles coos words of praise and scratches behind the happy dogs ears as the dog returns the snow-covered tennis ball.

 

When Stiles throws the ball a third time, he slips on some heavily packed snow, falling into the muddy snow bank.

 

Derek explodes in laughter as Kobalt chases down the tennis ball, unconcerned with Stiles’ pained plight.

 

Derek watches his tenant stand up with a wince and takes his phone out.

 

He swears at Derek good naturedly, threatening to sue, but Derek continues to lean back on the top step of his backyard deck, howling in delight at the picture he’s just taken of the younger man, muddy and wet.

 

Stiles squawks unhappily and charges at Derek, demanding it be deleted immediately, but as he gets there, he slips again, falling into the older man’s lap, knocking the phone back to clatter across the deck in the process.

 

They laugh hysterically at the ridiculousness of the situation and before either can figure out how, they're connected at the mouth, kissing like they've forgotten how to breathe.

 

Derek pulls Stiles further on top of him so that the younger man in straddling his hips as Derek threads a hand through his grown out, shaggy, snow-dirtied hair.

 

They kiss heatedly until Kobalt is nudging between them and they're scrambling off the deck floor and shedding dirty clothes onto the deck.  The two laugh and stumble their way inside and upstairs into Derek’s shower. They continue frantically kissing and touching and end up getting off against each other’s slick bodies in what should have been an embarrassingly short amount of time, but they're both so relieved that they simply stay there, smiling into one another's skin under the hot shower, leaning onto each other and the walls for support.

 

When they're dry, they each find they way back to the other again, naked and warm.  They climb into Derek’s obscenely large bed and trade kisses until their faces hurt from trying to smile and kiss, simultaneously.

 

“I should check my email before bed.”  Stiles whines as he runs feather-light touches across Derek's back.  Derek takes a deep breath in from on top of him then huffs out warm air into the thin patch of hair on Stiles’ chest.

 

“Yeah, I need to get up too.  Get the coffee maker ready for the morning and let Kobalt out.”  Derek does a push up, lifting what weight he had resting on Stiles’ body, but the man moans in protest.  Derek leans in and pecks him on the lips one last time before forcing his way up off the bed.

 

“Mmm, no.  Changed my mind.”  Stiles says quickly, sitting up at the edge of the bed to grab Derek’s hand and pull him back into his arms, where he can pepper kisses along his well-defined abdominals.  “All I need to do in this moment is find your lube and condom stash so that I can have my filthy way with you.”

 

Derek laughs and Stiles nuzzles into his stomach at the feeling.

 

“That'll be kind of hard, since I don't have a condom stash.”  Derek whispers loudly, running a hand through Stiles hair.

 

Stiles pulls back, confused.  Derek laughs and walks to the dresser to put on sweats.  He tosses a pair to Stiles as well

 

“I did find some in my night stand that were expired recently, so I threw ‘em out.”  Derek shrugs as he grabs the water from the nightstand. “Wasn't anticipating needing any.  If you couldn't tell… other than the gym, where they're all pretty much family… I'm not very social.”

 

“I mean… I wasn't…”  Stiles stumbles over his words and his own feet as he struggles to get into the sweatpants.  “That's totally cool, I wasn't like… judging or whatever… and I totally didn't mean to assume you’d want that.  I’m not… It's not like I have a-”

 

“Stiles!”  Derek snorts as the younger man inadvertently tries to dig himself into a hole he won't be able to crawl out of.  “I think the idea of you fucking me sounds great.”

 

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a few times and he nods awkwardly, a stilted jerk of the head that would leave anyone but Derek unsure of its meaning.

 

“Cool.  Cool cool cool cool.”  Stiles smiles sheepishly.  He points a thumb behind him aimlessly, then changes it to a pointer finger, and a second one meets the first as his eyebrows fly up in question. “I could like… I could go to the store?”

 

Derek shrugs as he walks toward his bathroom, throwing a coy smile over his shoulder.

 

“It  _ is _ only a five minute walk away.”  His voice carries from the tiled room, and Stiles is shouting out a loud “Back in ten!” before Derek even finishes the sentence.

 

*****

 

It becomes a different kind of routine after that.

 

And definitely not in a boring way.

 

Every day they wake up together is as full of laughter and passion as the very first.

 

It feels suspiciously like falling in love, but neither of them ever bring up  _ what exactly  _ they are.  Or even talk about it at all, really.

 

They spend their nights playing cards and listening to music or watching one of the many movies on Stiles’ “Oh my God, Derek, you have to see this” list.

 

The one time they watch a movie Derek  _ has  _ seen, it's Dirty Dancing and Derek gripes about how awful it is the whole way through.

 

_ “Why do you own the soundtrack if you hate it so much?  Huh, Der? HUH? I call bullshit.” _

 

They end up having playfully angry sex on the couch before the movie even ends.

 

When they collapse, tangled, sweaty and sated, just in time to watch the end of final dance scene, Derek leans back in and presses his mouth to Stiles’ bare shoulder and starts singing “Time of My Life” and Stiles cackles, diving back to tickle the older man until Derek admits that it is his  _ favorite _ movie of all time.

 

They laugh and cuddle and kiss on a daily basis and Stiles hasn't slept in his room for almost a month.

 

Stiles texts Derek before he takes lunch break sometimes to check if he wants him to go let Kobalt out for a bit.  He always refers to Derek’s dog as some ridiculous nickname, like “Kobe Bryant” or “Kobayashi Maru” and Derek smiles at the texts when he reads them.

 

Eventually Derek starts asking him to do it on occasion, even without the offer, promising he'll cook whatever Stiles wants for dinner, and there's always some innuendo about dessert.

 

One Saturday, Stiles is happily enjoying himself as Derek kisses his way across his body, taking his time mapping the moles on his torso, when Stiles absently asks him, “Why do you spell Koby's name with a K?”

 

Derek replies without missing a beat, “Because C's are ugly.”

 

Stiles freezes for a moment, then laughs hysterically at the absurdity of the answer.  His delight only grows as Derek wrestles to get the giggling man's pants off. Once he succeeds, he looks up to see Stiles’ blinding grin directed at him, eyes blown wide with lust despite the lingering laughter in them.  Stiles blurts out, “God, I fucking love you.” But before he can regret it, Derek is taking him into his mouth and wiping all possible thoughts of panic from his mind.

 

And then things change after that.

 

Stiles starts stressing out and working later into the night after he's already back from site.  His deadline is nipping at his heels and he spends hours on the phone sometimes that prohibit them from getting to watch whatever movie they'd planned.

 

It's not that Derek looks unhappy, per se, it's that he doesn't look at Stiles as long.

 

He kisses him on the forehead sweetly instead of sweeping him into a heated make out session, or he'll say he's tired and then fall asleep holding Stiles so tight that it's like he's pinning him down.

 

When they have sex, Derek always wants Stiles on top.  Begs him for more, tells him how good he is. Stiles is fine with it, in fact he loves it, and sometimes the intensity results in orgasms Stiles has never imagined possible.

 

But its off.

 

And then Stiles gets it one night when they're eating dinner.

 

Stiles has to take a call while Derek's cooking.  He's at the kitchen bar and he puts it on speaker, turning the music down a notch.  It's from another project manager who is in Las Vegas, working on some big multicarrier casino installation.  Stiles reacts with shock and amazement when the man tells him they're considering Stiles as the onsite manager for a job they just won in that market, a huge new sports venue.  The manager on the phone talks it up like it's the biggest project they company has done in years and they want Stiles to come talk to the higher ups about it at the site walk in a couple days.

 

Stiles ends the calls with an incredulous laugh, staring at his laptop and then up at Derek, who's diligently plating food.

 

“Can you  _ believe _ that?”  Stiles huffs, out of breath.  He laughs once more as Derek looks toward him for a second, a small smile on his face.  “God, I didn't know they were  _ that _ impressed with my work.  I thought it was just all talk when they sent me their standard good-job-kid emails.”

 

“Stiles, you're incredibly driven and hard-working.  Anyone would be blind not to notice.” Derek walks over to the other side of the bar with a plate of food and kisses Stiles’ hairline.  He walks toward the garage, where he has the large freezer and the wine fridge, still talking as he goes. “You'll be great at what you do no matter  _ where _ you end up, Stiles.”

 

When the door shuts behind him, something tightens in Stiles’ gut.  He looks around the kitchen to see that everything is done, even the wine is sitting out, and he wonders what Derek possibly could have gone out there for.

 

When Derek walks in a full two minutes later, nothing in hand, and starts picking at his own food, Stiles gets it.  Everything falls into place and Stiles can barely bring himself to respond when Derek offers him a kind, genuine smile over his wine glass.

 

*****

 

Stiles comes home early the next day.  He puts his bag by the door and toes off his shoes.

 

His chest hurts as he hangs his coat on what he'd come to know as  _ his _ hook.

 

He couldn't bear to stay at the job site a minute longer after the call he got from the company’s travel and expense coordinator.

 

He walks to the back sliding door and sees Derek out in the trees at his wood chopping block.  He's in a t-shirt and jeans alone, but even so, he's sweat soaked. The pile of wood near him is excessive, and Stiles imagines he's going to be pretty sore tomorrow.

 

Stiles stands at the glass door, just watching.

 

Kobalt notices first, getting to his feet and yipping excitedly.  The dog runs to the door, alerting Derek of his presence.

 

Stiles opens the door slowly, stepping outside and crouching down to pet Kobalt.

 

Derek stares blankly.  He knows Stiles knows.

 

“Got a pretty interesting call today, Der.”  Stiles says, more to Kobalt than to his owner.  “I'm guessing you know why the rest of my reservation is cancelled and the last two months have been refunded?”

 

Derek swings his axe back into the log that serves as it's home, bark splintering everywhere.

 

“Didn't think it was right to take your money.”  Derek sighs loudly, walking up to the deck, not even bothering to gather the wood he'd just piled up.

 

“It's not  _ my _ money, Der.”  Stiles grinds out between his teeth, standing up just as Derek reaches him.

 

Toe to toe, they're similar in height, and Stiles stares straight into the more intimidating man's eyes with a hard look, refusing to be cowed by the look of nonchalance Derek sends back.

 

“So, are we going to talk about this?”  Stiles hisses.

 

“Talk about what?”  Derek rolls his eyes.  “Can you move so that I can go shower?  I have Ahi defrosting if you wanna get started on something to eat with it for dinner.”

 

Stiles groans but moves to the side.  He knows that Derek could easily move him if he wanted, and the last thing Stiles wants to do is provoke a physical fight.

 

Derek walks inside, kicking his shoes off near the door, uncharacteristically careless about how they land.  Stiles follows behind with a frown, not being able to help himself as he leans over to right the boots, making sure they stay on the rug and to the side.

 

“God, don't-” Derek growls, from the bottom of the stairs and Stiles startles, actually shocked by the harsh, hateful tone of voice.

 

“Don't  _ what _ , Der?”  Stiles speaks weakly, a deep, stubborn frown on his face as he wills himself not to cry out of frustration.  He watches Derek drag a hand over his face before letting out a cruel laugh.

 

“You don't fucking  _ live _ here, Stiles!  This isn't  _ actually _ your home!”  Derek shouts, surprising Stiles once again, so much so that his eyes fly wider and he sucks in a breath before turning away to face the kitchen instead.  He knows his eyes have to be obviously red and he grits his teeth, angry with himself. He breathes in, then out, then nods at no one in particular.

 

“Yeah, I know.”  Stiles speaks clearly, walking away into the kitchen calmly.  “I'll start dinner.”

 

He doesn't look back, even when there's no sound of footsteps up the stairs.  He goes to the fridge and opens it, staring blankly into it as he continues gathering his composure.  He feels Derek's eyes on his back and he knows what look is on his face, despite never actually having seen it before.

 

Pain, regret, probably some self-loathing.

 

Stiles doesn’t turn back around to confirm.

 

When he bends down finally to gather vegetables from the crisper, he finally hears the soft, slow footfall of Derek climbing the stairs.

 

He starts chopping the onions first, giving himself something to blame it on when he can't help the two or three tears that fall down his flushed cheeks.

 

*****

 

They eat in front of the T.V. after the food is done.  They put on some Marvel show that neither of them really keep up with, usually too busy talking or kissing when it's on.

 

Derek gets up and washes their dishes and Stiles flips the set off just as he's finishing.

 

Stiles stands at the edge of the kitchen.

 

Derek dries off his hands and leans back against the sink.

 

“Can we at least talk about this?”  Stiles whispers, trying desperately not to get worked up again.

 

“Talk about what, Stiles?”  Derek folds his arms across his chest, his muscles bulging beneath his white undershirt, making his look like some  _ tough guy _ and not the soft, sweet, smiling Derek that Stiles has come to know.  He frowns and looks up at the wood ceiling, as if it's more entertaining that having this painful conversation.

 

“About how you've decided for the both of us that this is over, and you’ve done it because you know my project is ending soon.”  Stiles stumbles the words out, failing in his effort to not get frustrated, as saying it out loud brings their situation into reality.  “Don’t I get a say in this? Don't you want to talk about it before you just throw everything away?”

 

Derek growls in frustration.  He turns to the dish rack, desperate for something to do with his hands.

 

“Why bother?”  He shrugs easily, even though his voice sounds almost hysterical.  “Neither of us has a say in this, Stiles. We knew this was coming.  It's pointless to talk about it. You're leaving to go check out that new job in Vegas this weekend, and I think it's best if you don't stay here when you come back to do the last couple weeks of work.”

 

“You're kicking me out?”  Stiles hates how small his voice is and he winces, turning away as he sees Derek's cold expression falter.

 

He doesn't want Derek's pity.

 

“You can stay until your flight tomorrow night.  I can even drive you if you want.” Derek offers, his voice has turned small as well.

 

“I have my rental, don't be stupid.”  Stiles spits out walking away into the guest room, where the sheets haven't been slept in or changed since God-knows-when.  He shuts the door quietly behind himself, a clear sign that the discussion is over for the night.

 

*****

 

Derek has never been a heavy sleeper, but the exhaustion of chopping wood excessively and arguing with Stiles must have left him in quite a state, because when he wakes to his alarm and goes downstairs for their every day routine, he notes that the spare key in on the counter and Stiles is already gone.

 

The house is quiet.

 

Kobalt whines, appearing indifferent to the prospect of their usually morning outing.

 

He skips his regular steps in favor of padding over to the guest room.

 

The room is empty and the bedsheets and towels are piled together atop the bare mattress.

 

Stiles is gone.

 

Derek lets out a ragged breath the second he lets reality set in.

 

Stiles is never coming back.

 

*****

 

When Stiles presumably comes back from his trip, Derek's phone rings every day, twice a day for two weeks.

 

He doesn't ever open the texts, but they all say some version of “Call me, please” or “We need to talk.”

 

Derek doesn’t want to talk to anyone more than he already has to, let alone the man whose heart he broke in a selfish, knee-jerk attempt to save his own.

 

Derek’s days return to their normal pattern from months before.

 

He goes through the motions, never really getting back to the peace he felt before the loud-mouthed, mole covered human hurricane that swept into his life earlier that year.

 

Months go by.

 

Spring turns to summer and despite the beautiful weather, Derek finds himself reluctant to do much else but his barely-demanding personal training job and reading alone, or with Kobalt by his side, at the local beach.

 

He even orders most of his food and groceries for delivery.

 

He  _ never _ answers his phone.

 

It's not healthy, and he knows it.

 

But the man is heartbroken, his own fault or not.  And if he wants to mope and move on in this manner, then he will.  He still eats healthy, exercises…

 

He has Kobalt.

 

He'll be okay eventually.

 

On one of his better days, Derek gets a craving for steak.  So, he heads to the market that always has specials on Tuesdays, on foot with Kobalt in toe.  They walk slowly, and the long way, so that the husky gets as much exercise in as possible. As they’re walking into the parking lot, Kobalt breaks away, barking excitedly.

 

Derek looks up in shock at his dog's actions and watches him approach a man in a baseball cap who's carrying a couple reusable grocery bags.  Derek flinches as the man bends down to pet Kobalt because he looks and moves just like Stiles.

 

Derek's heart stops when the man looks up and around for the dog's owner.

 

Because it  _ is _ Stiles.

 

“Hey Der.”  He calls out and smiles warmly.  He looks timid, like he's expecting Derek to be unhappy at the sight of him, but there's an underlying look of relief, like he's been waiting patiently for this moment just as much as Derek has been dreaming hopelessly of it.

 

Derek steps forward slowly, still dazed from shock, and approaches the man petting his dog.

 

“What are you doing here?”  Derek breathes out on a slightly labored exhale, like he's just run a block to reach them, as opposed to the ten yards he'd walked.

 

“I, uh…”  Stiles squints against the light of the setting sun.  He takes a deep breath and looks up at Derek with a less enthusiastic expression.  “I live here now. In those month-to-month apartments over behind the strip at Stateline.  Makes it easy to go between the two installs in Reno I'm overseeing and the new minor job we’re bidding in Silver Lake.”

 

“But you…”  Derek's face looks constipated as he struggles to process the information.  “The job in Las Vegas. That was a huge promotion.”

 

“Yeah, they were pretty shocked I didn't take it, but they were nice enough to give me a small raise and a promotion I probably didn't deserve when I asked to stay here.”  Stiles laughs, standing and shaking his head.

 

He pulls his hat off and Derek notes how much shorter his hair is.  Even with his hair awkwardly matted down and sticking up in patches, Derek is taken back by how gorgeous he is.  Stiles replaces the hat, adjusting it to try and block out the glowing sun.

 

“Why.”  Derek’s voice cracks around the word, and it fails to sound like a question.  His eyes hurt from scrunching his face in confusion but he can't comprehend  _ why _ this is happening.  “I was awful to you. Like… I was so, so,  _ so _ awful.  And I never answered your calls or texts afterward.  You should hate me, Stiles. Why are you still here?”

 

Derek is practically crying, and he knows he sounds hysterical, but none of it makes sense.

 

Stiles looks down and away and Derek can hear him let out a couple huffs of humorless laughter before he's looking back at Derek, squinting again as the sunset shines in his eyes.

 

“I didn’t just fall in love with  _ you _ , Derek Hale.”  Stiles grins, but it doesn't meet his eyes.

 

Derek's breath catches at hearing the words, and he feels an increase in the pressure in his chest that he'd been trying so hard to get rid of for the past couple months.

 

“I fell in love with my life here.  The people, the air, the lake, the sky.  Yeah, sure, you and Kobalt are the reason I asked to move here and yes, you're also essentially the reason I took the newly-invented Reno-Tahoe Regional Manager position instead of taking the other job… But I actually do want to be here, Derek.  I want to stay in this magical place where California actually has seasons and the people all know your name. I knew well before I got that call to go to Vegas that wanted  _ this _ to be my home.  And if nothing else, Derek, I hope we can be friends.”   Stiles says, calmly, and it sounds painfully like a goodbye, despite the fact that he's just confessed to having given up a potentially life-changing job opportunity for a seemingly boring job just to prove that he would do anything to keep Derek in his life.  He sighs, smiling softly. “Because I'm around. I'm not going anywhere.”

 

He nods at Derek and pets Kobalt once more, to the dog's delight before picking up his bags and walking the other direction.

 

Derek watches him get in a dark blue Silverado.  It's not a rental. It's got the familiar company logo from the sweatshirt he'd been sleeping in once and a while since Stiles left.

 

Derek feels like he can't breathe and he stands there until Kobalt nips at his fingers gently.

 

“Okay, Koby, I know, I know.  I’m a fucking idiot.” Derek pets him as they they start walking back to the house, groceries forgotten.  The husky whines sadly. “It’s okay, Kobalt. I want him to come home too.”

 

*****

 

That Friday, Stiles climbs the steps to the second floor on the complex, hard hat in hand.  He twirls his keys around his finger absently as he walks down the back hallway, until a loud, familiar bark startles him into dropping his keys.

 

Derek is leaning against the railing, hands shoved into his zip up hoodie's pockets.

 

“Derek?  What are you…”  Stiles looks around, confused.  “How do you know where I live?”

 

“I asked around.”  Derek stands up straight.  “It wasn't that hard, I know your building’s super.”

 

Stiles smiles and shakes his head, stepping close to the man who'd been waiting outside his front door.

 

“I'm here to apologize.”  Derek frowns.

 

“Der, you don't-”

 

“I  _ really _ do, Stiles.  And you know it.”  Derek says and takes a step forward.  He reaches out, like he wants to touch Stiles’ face, but he flinches back, thinking better of it.  Stiles’ chest aches in loss, wanting nothing more than to feel Derek's hands on his skin. Anywhere.  Everywhere.

 

“Okay.”  Stiles nods and shrugs lightly.  “You do. I've already forgiven you, but yeah, it'd be nice to hear.”

 

“I'm an idiot.”  Derek starts with a straight face.  Stiles can't help but snort, but he apologized and let's Derek go on.  “I have  _ never _ felt this way about anyone, Stiles.  I haven't even really dated anyone since high school, which was a disaster, by the way, so I'm hardly even surprised that I fucked this up so badly.”

 

Derek laughs at himself and squats down to pet Kobalt, as if he needs the support just to go on with his speech.  He looks up at Stiles and shakes his head.

 

“I don't know why you've forgiven me.  I know I probably don't deserve it. I was selfish.  I knew I was hurting you and I did it anyway. I didn't want to listen, because I was terrified by the way you made me feel.”  Derek stands again, closing the distance between them even more. “When you said you loved me, whether you really meant it or not, it made me realize that I was hopelessly in love with you.”

 

Stiles sucks in a trembling breath and Derek leans in and presses their foreheads together.

 

“I  _ am _ hopelessly in love with you, Stiles.  I didn't stop loving you for a  _ second _ of the time that you were gone.”  Derek pulls away to kiss Stiles’ hairline.  He steps back and shoves an envelope into Stiles’ shaky hands.  “You're probably exhausted. Get some sleep.”

 

Derek grips Stiles shoulder, their eyes meeting again.  Stiles reaches up and covers the hand with his own free one, prompting the older man to smile hopefully.

 

“I'm not going anywhere either.”

 

Stiles watches him walk away and notices for the first time that the hoodie Derek is wearing is his own, company logo emblazoned on the back of it.

 

Stiles turns the key to his apartment with a deep sigh. He tosses his hard hat and keys onto the counter and stares at his name, written in Derek’s signature messy block letters.

 

Stiles opens the small, strangely heavy envelope and pulls out a folded up piece of paper.  There's a familiar key taped to the bottom of the handwritten letter. It's the one he left on the kitchen counter just over two months ago.

 

Stiles feels his chest tightening painfully as he reads the carefully written words above it.  
  


> _ Stiles, _
> 
>  
> 
> _ I'm happy you're making this town your home, and I'll be happy for you any way that you do so. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ But just so you know, I was wrong when I told you that my house wasn’t your home.  I never even really considered it more than an investment until you walked into my life and filled a space I didn't know was missing. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Every single day you spent there felt like the best day of my life, each one more full of life than the one before. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ It hasn't felt like home since the day you left. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Also, judging by how often he chooses to sleep in the guest room instead of with me, Kobalt thinks so too. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Derek _

 

Stiles leaves the now tear-streaked letter and the key in his kitchenette and walks toward the shower, wiping his eyes furiously.

 

He sheds his clothes haphazardly and after staying in the shower til it runs cold, he throws himself into bed, thankful for the fact that he doesn't need to set an alarm for Saturdays.

 

*****

 

On Saturday, just before sunset, Derek hears a truck pull up in front of the house as he's chopping wood.

 

He falters, heart stopping as hope floods his veins for the third time that day.  The first time had been a dark blue SUV that he saw turn onto the street out of the corner of his eye while taking Kobalt out in the morning.  The second had when he was making lunch and heard a truck park outside, and a door slam, but it had been a friend from the gym just dropping off the shoes Derek had ordered through their business account.

 

That was when Derek had decided to chop wood.

 

Strange decision for the middle of the summer, but who was going to judge him beside Kobalt.

 

Derek stops swinging his axe and listens for the sound of someone exiting the truck, waiting to see if anything followed.  After a minute, there's no indication the person is on Derek's street to see him, and so his heart sinks again and he goes back to chopping wood.

 

Another minute passes and Kobalt starts barking where Derek has left him inside.  Derek can hear it clearly with all the windows wide open. The following sound of the front door opening and a familiar soothing voice speaking to his dog has Derek's hands shaking.

 

Derek grips the axe, his heart pounding, letting himself hope to an extent he hadn't before.  He doesn't know whether to smile or cry as he hears the man inside put down what sounds like a large duffel bag, but the indecision is wiped away when he hears his turntable start playing a very familiar album, starting just before his favorite song.

 

The upbeat catchy chorus plays, reminding Derek of what it felt like to fall in love with the kind, loving man who stumbled clumsily into his life half a year ago, turning everything he'd ever known upside down.  

 

It gets louder as the sliding glass door opens a minute later, and Derek doesn't turn around, but he stops pretending that his hands are anywhere near steady enough to continue chopping wood.

 

“Come here, lover boy.”  Stiles calls from the house in a perfect imitation of Sylvia Robinson right along with the track.

 

Derek shouts out a laugh, his pulse pounding in his ears as he sets down the axe carefully.  He tugs off his gloves and covers his face with one of his hands, trying to calm himself before he does something embarrassing, like run inside into Stiles’ arms, but he hears the younger man step out onto the deck before he can gather himself.

 

“Oh, lover boy.”  Stiles coos along with the music, mimicking Sylvia's following line, and Derek loses it as he turns to face the man he desperately hopes he never loses again.

 

Derek smiles up at Stiles, taking quick, determined steps toward the house, but still not answering, just as Mickey describes on the track.  Stiles grins back as Derek steps in front of him. He continues singing along playfully to the catchy chorus that follows until Derek shuts him up with a hard kiss that has them smiling into each others mouths.

 

Derek backs Stiles into the house, carefully, and Stiles pulls away long enough to shut the sliding door before Derek is sweeping him off his feet to carry him up the stairs and make sure he feels perfectly at home.


End file.
